


Empty Spaces

by Cyphomandra



Series: The Long Haul [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Get Together, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Science Fiction, Slow Build, cliffhanger ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 06:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11891652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyphomandra/pseuds/Cyphomandra
Summary: "Only the best and most dedicated can serve as Guardians."Chirrut and Baze took very different paths to the Temple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to my betas, china_ shop and dashi! This is part 1 (of 3, hopefully, although my outlines do tend to expand) and is complete. Title is from Queen's _The Show Must Go On ___Written for the 2017 wipbigbang challenge, and I have art from amoresophisticatedkrackel that I will be posting once I work out how to do that...

When Baze Malbus was five years old he dreamed of a city on a rock, an unfamiliar clutch of buildings huddling together under the shelter of a tall tower. The tower looked like two hands pressed together, the darkness between them a welcoming entrance; it was nowhere he'd ever seen before and home, all at once, and when he woke his face was wet with tears.

That afternoon his mother found him nearly three kilometers from their camp, plodding in a direction he'd picked at random. When he heard her coming he broke into a stumbling run, water jug clanking against his thighs, but she was riding her kamia and got around in front of him easily. Thwarted, Baze stopped, his chest heaving from effort as he glared at the animal's hairy sides.

He sat stiffly in front of his mother as they rode home. She held the reins in one hand and looped the other around Baze's waist, not quite as tight as she could have, and she told him how much trouble he'd caused, how he needed to think about the good of the tribe and not go chasing after daydreams, and how disappointed she was. He knew better than that, she told him. Baze scowled into the distance. He could hear her concern under the lecture, and it gnawed at him more than the chastisement, but it didn't bite as deep as the thought of giving up on the city. A month later he ran again.

He timed it carefully, picking a day when the older kids were off collecting water and his aunt’s kamia had gone into calf a full month early, with what looked like twins, and he left conflicting messages as to where he was and with whom. After a long day's trudging in a different direction he curled up next to a clump of sandy tussock, too cold to do more than doze, and tracked the great arc of NaJedha as it progressed slowly over the depthless black of the night sky.

Moving in the morning was agony. He was just starting to loosen up when he heard the steady thud of hooves, and a shout of recognition from his uncle.

This time his mother dragged him into Grandmother's tent so they could both yell at him. Baze dug his hands down into the rug he was sitting on, feeling for the knots, and hunched his shoulders. He was familiar with Grandmother's tellings-off.

"Child." Her tone was icy.

Baze forced himself to look up. Grandmother was studying him with disapproval, as if he were a meal moth who’d gotten into the grain store. Outside, he heard his youngest cousin start to speak, and someone else shush them. They were all listening, then, the whole tribe, all worrying about him.

"Can't you just not look for me?" The words tumbled out of him. He felt miserable enough saying it, but the expression on his mother's face as she sat there besides his grandmother, twisting wool into thread around the spindle in her hands, made him feel even worse. He plunged on anyway. "I know you didn’t get enough water and now you have to go back, and we need to leave for the spring pastures as soon as we can." He didn't know whether he should keep listing all the problems he'd caused. "It would be easier if you didn't look."

His mother started to say something, but his grandmother held up a hand. "Tell me your dream."

 Baze stumbled through it; the city, the tower. His grandmother's face radiated disapproval, and his mother concern. It sounded stupid. Childish. He twisted rug strands between his fingers. "I need to go there. I don't know why."

Silence stretched out between them. Baze thought, miserably, about how difficult it would be to steal a kamia.

"I cannot tie you to the tentpole forever," his grandmother said. "And you would no doubt be mounted next time, which would be an even greater inconvenience than your own absence."

Baze twitched guiltily. His grandmother pierced him with a glare. "The city in your dream is NiJedha. It is a holy city, on the other side of the planet. You cannot walk there."

Baze stared back at her. She believed him? It was real?

 "You will promise not to run again," his grandmother continued. "In return, at the spring gathering, we will take you to someone from NiJedha. You will tell them what you have told me."

 He couldn't think of what to say. He stood up and bowed as deeply as he could, trying to put everything into the gesture. When he finally straightened his grandmother was waving him away. "Go help your uncles. You have much to make up for."

The uncles were digging over the sanitary trenches, which everyone hated. Baze didn't care. He almost skipped out of the tent, untroubled that his mother had put down her spindle and was talking, low-voiced, to his grandmother.

Two months later as they were putting up tents at the spring gathering, exchanging greetings with other tribes and having mostly friendly arguments over tent position, his mother pulled Baze away, shushing him when he protested, and walked him briskly up a hill behind the auction grounds to a low hut with smooth shiny blue walls made of some unfamiliar metal. The woman who opened the door was equally unknown, only a little taller than Baze himself, with yellow leathery skin and overlapping scales for hair. She contemplated the pair of them with wide orange eyes.

"He has dreams," his mother said. Baze looked up at her. She didn't look down. "Of the temple in Jedha. He says he has to go there."

"Dreams," the woman said.

"Do you have them too?" Baze asked. His mother had been less than helpful about where she was taking him. Her hand tightened on his.

"Not those ones. Come." The woman stepped aside. Baze entered. Inside were more shiny blue walls and more machines than Baze had ever seen; panels with buttons, flashing lights, things that hummed - he shrunk back, alarmed. His cousins said the machines the lowlanders relied on could steal your soul away. His grandmother said that was ridiculous but the things were mostly quite unnecessary (she made an exception for a small medidroid his aunt had brought with her when she married in) and Grandmother was usually right, but Baze didn't want to take any risks.  A small three-legged stool was in the middle of the floor.

"Sit."

Baze obeyed, relieved when the chair didn't do anything other than provide support. When instructed, he held out one hand.The woman pricked his finger with a thin metal spike to make it bleed and pressed a thin transparent tube to it before taking everything away to one of the machines, which beeped. Baze flinched. His mother's grip on his free hand hadn't relaxed since they entered.

"No potential," the woman said. She dropped the tube and spike into a hole that opened in one of the panels and closed again. "Not sensitive."

His mother sagged next to him. Baze didn't understand. "Did I do something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing's wrong. You're fine." She hugged him.

She didn't look as though things were fine. Baze chewed his lower lip. Maybe he should ask the woman to test him again, although the thought of it unnerved him. He looked over to where she was.

The city of his dream. It was small but clear, outlined in a perfect square on one of the blank screens; the red rock lifting up, the buildings like tumbled boxes, the tower. The woman tapped it and it vanished - Baze opened his mouth to protest - and then there was a man's face, prominent brows, grey skin, hooded.

"Ahelia," he said.

"The Force be with you," the strange woman said. "I have here one of the children of the steppe. He has a calling to your temple."

 The face moved, and the man's eyes met Baze's. He stared back, not even daring to blink under the weight of the man's regard.

"Has to be sixteen for the trials," the voice said. "Give me his name and I'll put it on the list."

Baze gave his name when prompted. His mother added the clan name, matriarch, and line of descent when the woman - Ahelia - asked.

"We will be waiting for you." The gaze moved back to Ahelia. "May the Force be with you." She murmured in reply.

The picture shrunk to black.

"I can go?" Baze said blankly. He couldn't begin to think about waiting until he was sixteen. Ahelia came over to him.

 She didn't need to crouch down to meet his eyes. "You will go. Not now. But you have to be ready, because only the best and most dedicated can serve as Guardians." She turned his hand over. The hole where she'd tested him had stopped bleeding. "It will be difficult," she added.

 "Thank you," Baze's mother said, and tugged at him to leave, almost hustling.  
   
"I hope your dreams come true, too," Baze said politely to the woman as they left.

"A dangerous wish," the woman said. Baze's mother yanked him out the door and then they were going back down to camp, and in the cheerful chaos he forgot to ask why she might have said that.

Ten years later Baze rode away from his tribe and everything else he'd always known. He was desperate to leave, to begin, but as each step made the journey more inevitable he found himself increasingly torn. He twisted around in his saddle, one hand on the kamia's warm rump to steady him, and stared at the clutch of familiar tents, the animals and the people watching him depart. His mother was a little apart from the main group, up above the track, where she would be able to see him for the longest time; she wore the orange scarf he'd knitted for her when he was a child, claiming it was warmer than any other despite the knots and holes. Baze could still pick it out when everything else had faded into the distance. 

("Find a way to let me know you're all right," she'd said into his ear, and he'd nodded, wordless, in response.) 

His hand tightened on the coarse kamia hairs. He kept looking until there was nothing left to see.


	2. Chapter 2

Chirrut Îmwe grew up secure in his own and his family's importance, which was as it should be for any member of House Îmwe, one of Jedha's leading merchant families. This self-assurance was jolted when his tutor informed him one day that - far from being the centre of the universe - Jedha itself was a mere satellite, a moon orbiting the small, unexciting planet NaJedha; a planet that was only one of many thousands in a vast and largely indifferent galaxy.

Chirrut slipped out while his tutor was drawing a star map on the blackboard and sought out his parents in their study. He knew he was not supposed to bother them, but this was important and the door was ajar; he pushed it open a little further and stood in the gap, radiating urgency, until his father glanced over from his pile of papers and frowned.

"Chirrut."

"Did you know we're not even a planet? And, even if we were, there are lots and lots of others?" Chirrut rocked forward on his toes for emphasis.

His mother, who was standing behind his father, leaned forward over the desk. She was in formal House clothing, grey and scarlet; Chirrut rarely saw her in anything else. "Is this what your tutor is telling you? It's hardly relevant." She glanced at his father.

"I'll deal with it," his father said. "Yes, Chirrut, there are other worlds. It's nothing to be so worked up over."

Chirrut hardly agreed. "But if there's lots of other worlds and people we're not special." After the initial shock, he'd found this comforting. The weight of his family's expectations could be crushing; if there were many other Houses and people, the burden became less overwhelming.

His parents' reaction differed greatly. He was told off for failing to pay attention to important matters, for bothering his parents, and, most of all, for betraying the House and disrespecting its head. By the end, Chirrut was red-eyed and sniffing.

"If you ever do leave this planet I hope you'll be more aware of your duty," his mother finished. She turned her attention back towards her papers, dismissing him. Shaken, Chirrut made his formal bow. Neither of his parents acknowledged it.

He retreated back down the corridor, where he had to placate his concerned tutor. He managed poorly, troubled by a growing concern that was justified the next morning when an entirely new tutor appeared.

As he grew older he realised that, for his whole, family anything outside of the Îmwe House and name was a distraction. It was like looking through a lens so powerful it warped everything else around it, but if so it was a lens only Chirrut seemed aware of. For everyone else, the House was all; from his great-uncle, the House head, a terrifying figure who reminded Chirrut of a desert eagle with his hooked nose and fondness for swooping attacks, down to the Nela his family used for servant jobs unsuited to droids, who had been bonded to the House for generations and, rumour had it, would suicide rather than leave. His tutor had been a Nela, a painful thought that came back to Chirrut at nights, and stopped him from asking any than banal questions of the other staff.

Those Chirrut met outside of House Îmwe had their own focuses; House Refa and House Groag were the main rivals, and all three, along with an assortment of lesser Houses, owed allegiance to the lunar governor, who answered in turn to the Republic, but the Republic was a distant and usually disregarded presence. Chirrut was aware, dimly, of people outside the Houses entirely, but any curiosity was discouraged and it was hard enough keeping up with what he was supposed to know. His mother was a candidate for House Heir, a position vacant since before Chirrut's birth, when his great-uncle had wrested the Headship from his own brother; he at times favoured one candidate, then another, but said that assigning a permanent successor too soon would promote weakness. Chirrut hoped his mother would succeed as heir because she wanted it so much, but he found the constant examination of every analysis and conversation for any shred of advantage exhausting.

As a young child Chirrut went with his family to weekly services at the Church of the Perpetual Unfolding, sitting right up at the front and holding their iridescent riala feathers for all to see. Then his older sister turned seven and a dedication at the Wholosphere Temple, complete with a generous donation, was the boost his father needed to steal a lucrative contract for the Temple's new building works out from under the nose of House Groag. They burnt elaborate flower offerings regularly there until the last of the roof tiles went on, and then his mother began taking them to the Revoked Uncertainties and got Chirrut into the choir.

"But what do we really believe?" Chirrut was being fitted for his choir robe, the tailor droid attaching row upon row of ceremonial frills with a needle that moved so fast it blurred. His mother laughed, a tinkling sound with no humour in it. "You are funny sometimes," she said, and beckoned to his older sister, who had only needed a standard robe and looked infinitely more comfortable. "Tarrill, you’re at a buffet with a Master from the Engineering Guild, and you want their favour. They ask about your faith."

Tarrill lifted her chin up, dark eyes flashing intensity. "Deeds, not words," she said. "What does it matter what we say at Temple if we can’t act?"

Their mother nodded. "The Meleagars suggest a public thanksgiving ritual at contract completion."

Tarrill giggled artificially, and put her head to one side. "Worship’s such a personal thing, isn’t it? I think it's in silence that we find the most meaning."

Chirrut frowned. He knew the Meleagars were disliked - they were a splinter group of House Groag who dealt mainly with off-worlders - and what Tarrill had said would probably annoy them, but he didn't understand what this had to do with his question.

"Guardians of the Whills."

Tarrill laughed, properly this time. "That’s cheating!" she said, and their mother smiled briefly, before turning to Chirrut and asking if he understood now. Chirrut was still unsure, but he nodded. He’d learnt that much.

He memorised all the Uncertainties songs of praise, anyway, and asked his latest tutor about the Guardians, a name he hadn't heard before. "They don’t believe in money," the tutor said, drily. "Which makes them irrelevant. Now. How would you respond to a legal challenge of tax evasion through claiming luxury furs as personal items?"

That winter his mother took them to NiJedha for his new baby brother Arroq's formal acceptance into the Virtu, who had just the week done the same thing for the governor’s youngest daughter. It was an old-fashioned city, full of pilgrims and made up of a clutter of mismatched buildings that all seemed to be jostling for space under the shadow of the Guardians' Temple. It seemed rather large for a sect that didn't believe in money. Chirrut decided that all the different religions must be lying, too, which made the question of what he believed much easier.

When Chirrut was nine he made a friend, Corwin, a boy from House Refa. It started with catching each other’s eye during social occasions, partly in sympathy and partly in an attempt to make the other laugh, but occasionally they managed a few moments of conversation or even a hand of five stones. One time at the opening of a new public fountain they both snuck out through an unlocked door to a balcony behind the attendance hall. They took turns balancing on the balcony, each leaning out over the rail as far as he could, feet off the ground, while the other one counted; when the novelty of that wore out they pointed out the buildings below to each other, which ones they'd seen and how boring they'd been. When the hall bells started chiming they crept back inside. Chirrut put up with the rest of the endless ceremony with a quiet inner contentment.

It didn't last. He was going through contracts with his tutor when his father leaned around the door and said, "Chirrut. What did the Refa boy tell you?"

Chirrut took refuge in the cool politeness he’d learned to adopt on social occasions. "I’m not sure what you mean."

His father looked down at him with disapproval. "What is your mother doing today?"

"Meeting with great-uncle to discuss opening up the northern quarries to trade," Chirrut answered, automatically, and then realized. "House Refa opposes this."

"I am well aware of that," his father said heavily. "What did he say?"

Chirrut hadn’t thought about deals at all when he’d been on the balcony. He stared back at his father blankly. He’d known? Had the door been left open on purpose?

Disapproval was joined by disappointment. "I see. I hope at least you didn’t reveal all our secrets."

With a sinking feeling, Chirrut remembered pointing out the mining guild headquarters, where they’d gone to a midnight meeting a week ago. He looked back down at his contracts, the letters blurring. Corwin wouldn’t tell. He was a friend.

The quarries remained closed. Chirrut avoided Corwin at the next few social occasions, then curiosity got the better of him and he shuffled to the back of the crowd in between speeches. Corwin glanced sideways and grinned.

Chirrut didn’t. "Did you tell your House what we talked about?" he hissed.

For a moment, he hoped, and then Corwin’s grin turned sly. "You mean you don’t?

Chirrut edged back into place looking determinedly at the front of the room, Corwin’s chuckle still echoing in his ears.

He didn't attempt friendship again. Instead, he copied his sister, and the brittle, transient alliances she made and broke with ease. His cool politeness became more polished.

Losing the quarries pushed his mother out of favour in the House, and the next few years were leaner. Chirrut, who was trying hard to climb out of disgrace, was given the title of a spice shop in the Old Quarter ("It lost us ten thousand credits last year," his mother said. "You can hardly do worse."). He got better at telling people what to do and expecting compliance, mimicking what he saw around him, but actually knowing what to do was different. After another year of losses he asked his sister Tarrill for advice.

She flipped through his stock summaries and projections. "Cut wages, you’re far too generous. And you’ve only one competitor for moonflower powder. Hire some bandits to take out their caravan when they’re coming in next spring."

Chirrut had cut wages, twice, and his manager was complaining. And as for her other suggestion - "Bandits? " He couldn’t stop his voice from going up in startlement.

Tarrill handed him back the pages. "Security will give you some names," she said, with a touch of amusement. "You do want to succeed?"

Chirrut talked to security. Two quarters later, after his moonflower shipment had arrived – and been sold at considerable mark-up – the shop turned a profit. Chirrut’s father sent him a flimplast of skimmers for sale, and told him to pick one as a reward.

The gap between his inner self and the polished exterior widened, and there were days and even weeks when Chirrut didn’t think about anything other than what he was supposed to be. It was easier. No one else seemed to have these doubts; therefore, the flaw had to be in him. With each layer of deception Chirrut grew less sure that there was anything underneath it except a void. He learned to fly his skimmer, taking it out to the cliffs south of the city and riding the updrafts, dangerously close to the unforgiving rock face. The bandits had been the right decision, he told himself. He didn't regret it.

When he was fourteen, a group of unaffiliated prospectors found a rich deposit of yettria in the eastern hills, and the tension between House Groag and House Îmwe boiled over as they each tried to claim it. House servants were beaten up on errands, vehicles stolen or torched; Chirrut and his siblings acquired bodyguards, , who accompanied them in pairs whenever they left the House, and learnt how to shoot. The Governor deployed security droids as peacekeepers, which annoyed both sides equally. In the chaos Chirrut’s mother fought her way back into contention for succession. Chirrut’s spice shop was sold off; he spent his time poring over mining title rights and prospector’s reports, looking for an edge the House could use. It was no use. House Rega swept in and took the lot, newly empowered by direct connections with the Republic.

Once the dust had settled Chirrut's uncle and two cousins were dead. Publicly the story was a hovership crash; privately, it was an unsuccessful coup, aimed at taking over while the Head looked weak. Chirrut had a glimpse of his aunt, white-faced and silent, before she disappeared, on a "spiritual retreat". His mother had meetings late into the night, both before and after the coup attempt, and was obviously rising in House favour. Chirrut did not bother to wonder if she had known.

Tarrill showed up one evening when Chirrut was tinkering with his skimmer and insisted he change immediately and accompany her to a party. He put up a token protest but went along with it, until it became apparent where they were going. 

"That's the Groag compound." Chirrut yanked at her arm. She shrugged him off.

"Right there. Driver." The car slowed to a stop.

"We can't go in there." They had two bodyguards as well as the driver, but this was ridiculous.

"I do have an invitation," Tarrill said, and indicated for a guard to open the door. "You too, if you can behave acceptably." She slid out of the car and turned to where Chirrut was still sitting.

"It's Refa we have to worry about now." She sounded as if she were explaining matters to a small child. Chirrut bit down his resentment and got out of the car.

Even with the bodyguards to protect them, he felt the back of his neck prickle as he walked into the compound. The House guards allowed them passage, and then they were in; lights, music, people he recognised from long-held grudges; a perfectly standard party. Chirrut took a glass of cloud wine from a servitor droid and smiled blandly at a young man whom he recognised from security footage as being coincidentally close to a number of warehouse fires. The young man smiled back.

That party, and numerous subsequent ones, were an education. It was still warfare, but on a more palatable battlefield, and these were people Chirrut had no compunctions about hurting. He watched his sister initially for guidance, but increasingly went out even when she was busy. He always took his bodyguards, but he did leave them outside the room where he lost his virginity with the arsonist.

("I do hope that was your first time." The arsonist arranged himself gracefully against the pillows. "Can't your House afford private tutors?" He was needling, looking for a weak spot.

It didn't even bother Chirrut. "You should be grateful I have no basis for comparison." He gave the man one last dismissive glance. "Yet.")

Everyone was lying. No one really believed anything. The House was all he had, and all he needed.

Despite that, when he saw Corwin standing in full formal dress with his parents and half a dozen off-worlders behind the governor as he gave a speech about the new opportunities afforded by House Refa's successful mining endeavours, it knocked something loose in Chirrut; resentment, he told himself, but there was a gnawing question there as well; offworlders and friendship, abandoned dreams. 

But it gave him an idea as well. He spent a few weeks turning it over in his mind, considering, and then took it to his mother. 


	3. Chapter 3

Finding a trader prepared to take Baze the entire way who also met Grandmother's exacting standards had taken time. Erren was a blood relative by only the most tenuous of connections, but he'd been to NiJedha half a dozen times, and twice in the last four years he'd collected a share of the tribe's trading hides and dealt fairly with them. Erren was a widower and his wife had been from the lowlands, where he'd spent most of his life, but his two daughters Corda and Elif had the look of their father, stocky, thick-muscled women, with flat stares and well-used weapons. They'd guarded trade caravans since they were younger than Baze, and Baze's grandmother had approved of them almost more than Erren.

Baze had dreamed of the tower a handful of times since that first occasion. It kept him on his path and separated him from his peers, who from puberty onwards were planning for their initiation treks or assembling dowries. Baze had tried to find out anything he could about the Guardians and their trials, quizzing any stranger he met, but what he learned was contradictory and unhelpful. Ahelia and her blue hut had not been at the next spring gathering, nor the one after that; three years later the hut had been there, but the man inside shook his head when Baze asked. "You have all the answers you need," was all he would say.

The Guardians were thinkers, and fighters, and they worked with the Jedi; that much he knew. Baze knew now what test he'd failed as a child, and it sharpened the edge of his fears about the trials he would have to face. There would be a place for him, even if he weren't a Jedi, he told himself, and on good days he believed it. He could ride. He could shoot, with slingshot and the short bolted crossbow, and he'd fired a laser rifle a handful of times at gatherings, shattering the broken clay pots set up for targets. He could wrestle and run and climb. An uncle had spent the long winter evenings laboriously teaching Baze to read and write the Basic remembered from his own childhood, and his lowlands aunt had, eventually, given in to his pleas and shown him how to use the medidroid under her strict supervision, teaching him its handful of whistle phrases. 

He couldn't begin to list all the things he didn't know. The Guardians were in a city with technology and magic - would they even need kamias? Maybe they just flew through the air. He grimaced, and patted his own kamia consolingly. There were four other kamia in the caravan, two with pack goods, two yoked to a light wooden travelling wagon, but Erren and his two daughters rode riwarls, long-necked creatures with tightly coiled wool and a tendency to spit. 

Erren's route took them across the steppe, via various fixed and mobile rendezvous and around the main bulk of the High Massif, a slow but reliable route that should have them in NiJedha by the end of summer. This time of year it was easy to find fodder for the animals and themselves, and the other tribes they encountered were all happy enough to feed a few extra mouths for a night or two. Erren traded for small goods; spices, crystals, salt, leatherwork. Grandmother had given Erren a whole sheaf of beadwork as payment for taking Baze, something he felt both honoured and a little guilty about. Men were supposed to bring people and wealth into the tribe, not take them away.

 In the evenings Corda sparred with Baze, unarmed or with knives. Elif occasionally watched and commented acerbically on any errors, but one evening when the wind kept them inside their tents she handed Baze a laser pistol, the first he'd seen, and made him strip and rebuild it. When he could do this to her satisfaction she showed him the radio. 

"Who are they?" Baze asked, once she'd explained that these were other people talking, all over Jedha, thousands of kilometers away.Elif tapped a button. The male drawling voice that had been talking about cows was replaced with shrill whistlings. 

"Tavek," Elif said, whatever that meant, and tapped again. This voice sounded more human, but Baze didn't recognise the language. "Other traders, mostly in the deserts and lowlands. You steppe people are so touchy about tech."

Corda coughed loudly. Elif dug an elbow into her ribs without looking.

"Half of it's lies - no-one wants to give away a trade advantage. But sometimes what they lie about tells you what you need to know."

"What are they saying now?" Baze had caught the name Tuyal, the big town that marked the edge of the steppe and the start of the desert.

Elif listened for a moment. "The usual. Too many traders with winter hides, no one has any red spice, and don't drink the water from the town well unless you enjoy spreading your insides over everything you own."

"What about NiJedha?"

Elif put her hand on the radio. "I could ask for information. Can't promise you can rely on it."

The man in the hut had told him he knew all he needed. Baze chewed his lip. He wanted to ask, but would it help? Maybe he wasn't supposed to know. He eyed the radio and its hidden technology distrustfully. Lies, Elif said, and his grandmother would have agreed.

"No," he said. "I'll wait."

"I hear," Corda said helpfully, "that the Guardians swear vows of celibacy and shun all physical contact."

Erren snorted. "That's the Jedi."

"Same difference," Corda snapped back.

Baze smiled in response to the teasing, but didn't answer it. He had failed the test to be a Jedi. As for celibacy, he was fairly sure that he preferred men to women, something tolerated but not encouraged by his clan, but had avoided any entanglements. He would have had to father children if Grandmother had ordered it, regardless, so perhaps celibacy would not be too bad an alternative.

Another week, and the sparse razor grass was starting to shade sliver, brittle and dry. More time each day was spent searching for fodder for the beasts, and when Erren tapped the water barrels the level at which the pitch changed from hollow dropped lower and lower. Erren spread out his delicate parchment map, smoothing it carefully and studying the marks and symbols inked in on previous travels. 

"We're only five days from Tuyal," Corda said, leaning over and tracing a dark red line with her finger to a circle at the edge of the mountains. "Should be fine."

Erren frowned. "I'm worried about the water there. Elif?" 

Elif came over from where she'd been listening to her radio. "More plague," she said, when Erren asked. "The Blues are re-routing via Siva, and the Orrens are going anyway but boiling everything."

"Where's Siva?" Baze asked. Elif pointed to another small circle, this one further down in the lowlands and heading back west, from where they'd come.

"Ten days, maybe eight if we push." Elif shrugged. "Doable."

"It's going backwards." Baze looked up to see them all staring at him. "Isn't it?"

"I promised your grandmother I'd get you there safely," Erren said. "I didn't promise speed."

Baze felt torn. "I know." He couldn't quite bring himself to apologise.

Erren cleared his throat deliberately, and then at least Corda and Elif were looking away. 

"Or," Erren traced another route, "we go up here." His finger took a faded blue line upwards through the mountains to a small triangle. "There's a pass here, and a spring; used to be a mining town. Steep going, but it gets us on the right side of the mountains."

Elif was studying it. "We've never been that way. And you've put, 'Danger, rockfalls' here."

"Rockfalls, plague or Baze pining?" Corda said. "Pick your disaster."

"I've been through twice," Erren said. "We lost a beast and rider on the second trip – your mother's younger sister, back when she was trading. The Fuori use it, though."

"They're half-goat." Elif was still frowning. "Can I call them?"

Erren granted permission. It took Elif a while to track the right people down with her radio, and Baze fell asleep waiting for her to respond, curled up in his blankets and staring at the dull glow of the banked cooking fire. 

He dreamed of the tower and woke to good news, as far as it went. No, the Fuori hadn't been through yet this season - they avoided making the crossing in winter and spring, when snow or thaw loosened the rocks - but this was late enough into summer that it should be all right, and they'd crossed earlier in other years. Erren gave the orders to pack up, and check the beasts, and they headed out.

It got colder as they climbed, and Baze had to dig into his satchel for warmer clothing. The trail was steep and scarred by previous rockfalls; dark holes gaped in the rock face like missing teeth where the mineworks had been. Eagles flew above them in lazy circles, screeching warnings to each other.

Just ahead of the pass the track ran out onto a small plateau, ringed with the crumbled stone walls of a handful of abandoned houses. Taking up almost the whole of the open ground was a sleek black hovership, like a giant insect. There was no one visible. The others had already halted, staring. Baze nudged his kamia past the supply beasts and stopped next to them. "What is it?"

 Erren shook his head. "City people," he said. He clicked his tongue, and his riwarl ambled on to the plateau. "Maybe they need water, too. Come on."

The spring was a little above the houses, bubbling into a small rocky pool at the top of a well-worn track just wide enough to get a packbeast up. No one else was there. Baze lugged water barrels and stared at the hovership, fascinated and unnerved by it. Once all the animals were cared for he drifted back towards it. Up close it seemed to be made of a single piece of seamless metal. He put out a hand. 

"I'll thank you to leave my ship alone," a voice said, cool and disdainful.

Baze jerked his hand back. A man had just come into sight on the far side of the plateau, towards the pass, striding towards him. He was the most elegant person Baze had ever seen, tall and slim and dressed in tight-fitting steel grey leathers that looked almost as seamless as the ship, and he was staring at Baze as if he he had just crawled out from under a dung heap.

Baze couldn't entirely blame him. "It's a nice ship," he offered. Closer, the man looked younger than Baze had thought, perhaps even younger than himself; his skin seemed untouched by sun or weather, his cheekbones gleaming. He looked far too perfect. He glared at Baze until Baze moved backwards, and then put his hand to a side panel, which glowed softly in response. 

"Yes. It's still mine." 

"Greetings," Erren called. Behind him, Baze could see Corda and Elif, watching. "We're traders, bound for NiJedha."

At that the man hesitated. A door had slid open, soundlessly, into his ship, and Baze could see more lights and machines inside set against smooth white walls. It reminded him of Ahelia's hut, fascinating and disturbing all at once, and he wondered how anyone could feel at home there.

"Find another route," the man said abruptly. "The pass is blocked." He swung himself up into the ship with a single graceful movement, and the panel slid shut in Baze's face.

Baze stepped back, hurriedly, expecting it to take off, but instead it just sat there, the reflective surface of its front viewscreen showing nothing of the interior. Baze considered touching it again. He found the man as fascinating as his ship, despite his rudeness; he was like no one he'd ever seen before. Deciding that this was unlikely to be well-received, he wandered back over to the others, casting the occasional backwards glance.

Erren was hooking feed bags onto harnesses. Corda was getting the grain out from the wagon, but Elif had her pistol out and was leaning on a half-fallen rock wall with conveniently good coverage of the plateau.

"Do we keep going?" Baze kept his voice low.

Erren shrugged. "He might be telling the truth." He put a last handful of corn into the feedbag he was holding and rubbed the riwarl hard between the ears.

"You don't think so." Baze certainly didn't.

"He wasn't armed, but I don't think he's alone." Erren glanced back at the hover. "No House crest. Four, maybe six- seater?"

"Four," Elif said. She sounded envious. "I've seen one at the spaceport. Capable of orbital flight, if you need it; very expensive."

"Rich city kid." Corda put in her opinion. "He shouldn’t need to steal from traders."

"They have to get rich somehow." Erren pushed the riwarl's head away from where it was investigating his pockets. "It's getting dark. We were going to camp here anyway. We'll wait."

They put the tents up in a loose semi-circle on their side of the plateau and pegged the animals in the shelter of one of the more intact houses. The sky above the mountains was the translucent blue of early evening, and the deep black of the ship drank it in, unmoving.

A rattle of pebbles. Figures coming up onto the plateau from the pass side, moving around the hovership towards them. Baze turned. Corda was squaring up, hands on hips, and Elif - Baze couldn't see her at first, then caught a glimpse of movement, behind the shelter of a wall. Erren levered the cooking pot off the fire and stood up as the figures approached.

The lead one was in dull red leathers, striding quickly, and the other two in grey with helmets that masked their faces. They hung back a little as the leader moved towards Erren. One of them hefted a rifle, not quite pointing it at anyone. 

"I am sorry," the leader said. She was a tall woman, with close-cropped black hair; she had the same cool elegance as the earlier man, but was older and sounded much friendlier. "My son informs me you were hoping to cross the pass. It's quite impossible."

Erren nodded slowly, as if taking her comments on board. "What’s happened?" 

"A slip has taken out the whole southward trail," she said smoothly. "I've alerted the authorities, but it will take some time to get a repair crew out here. You’d best head back the way you’ve come."

"Inconvenient," Erren said.

The woman smiled, but her eyes were cold. "Less so than falling off a cliff, surely?"

Erren shrugged. "We'll head back down in the morning."

"The earlier the safer." She nodded to the mountains rising around them. "These slopes aren't stable."

She let her comment linger and gestured to the grey figures to take up guard positions next to the hovership, before lifting her wrist to her mouth. 

"Chirrut."

The door of the hovership slid open soundlessly to let her in. It closed behind her in equal silence. Baze retreated with the others to their side of the plateau.

"I don't believe her." Baze dug his toasting fork into the embers with an emphatic twist. "Why don't we just keep going?"

"We can't outrun them," Corda said."No weapons mounts on the hovership." 

Elif tossed her own crusts into the embers. "Still. They might have more portable weapons inside. And those rifles have a decent range."

"They wouldn't shoot us!" Baze was startled.

Corda snorted. Erren put down his tin mug. "Baze. There is nothing to stop them shooting us."

Baze started to speak, but Erren kept talking, fixing Baze with a stern glare. "I promised your grandmother I would keep you safe. These are not safe people to argue with. We head back down the trail in the morning."

 Baze bowed his head. It felt all wrong. He didn't want to go back, and he didn't want to give in to these people, whom he knew weren’t telling the truth, but he didn't want to argue with Erren either, who was older and experienced - and, Baze admitted, doing what Grandmother would have wanted. The tribe's first instinct was, always, to move."Baze?"

"All right," Baze mumbled. Erren touched him briefly on the shoulder.

"It'll be another three weeks at the most. You'll get there."

Elif took first watch. Baze lay in his blankets, eyes half-closed, listening for the change in breathing that would signal the others were asleep, and then waiting for Elif to do her usual check of the beasts and the periphery of the camp. As soon as she was out of sight behind the wagon he rolled out, shoved his satchel and bags into his sleeping blankets to bulk them up, and crawled quickly for the cover of a wall before scrambling to his feet. He moved as quickly and as quietly as he could, aiming for the access track to the spring. He thought Elif would shout before shooting, but the skin on the back of his neck prickled in anticipation before he got far enough away to stop worrying.

He didn't know if he could get round to the southward trail from here, but when they were filling water earlier he'd noticed a faint track leading upwards through the rocks, around to a ridge on the side of the pass. NaJedha was full; if the trail had been wiped out, he'd see it.

It took him a good hour to reach the ridge. It was a steep track, and Baze moved as fast as he could, uncertain how long his deception would remain undetected - or what Elif would do if she found out. He was panting by the time he finally reached the crest where he paused, hands on his hips.

The other side of the pass was spread out before him, pale in the planetlight. The silver line of the trail ran out of the pass and zigzagged smoothly down the hill, uninterrupted, but about halfway down where the track was a little wider it was blocked by the bulk of a structure, a large container of some sort with a downwards sloping ramp at one end. Black shapes with faint red lights on them were trundling out of the container, down the ramp and along – Baze squinted – and into another one of those gaps in the rock wall. Their outlines were asymmetrical at the top, each one different; it took him a few moments to notice that another line of smaller, more regular black shapes were coming back the other way and up into the container. Something being unloaded? The light wasn't clear enough to tell.

The untouched track was clear enough.

Vindicated, Baze took one last look and began jogging back.

At the spring he ducked down and filled his hands with water, splashing his face with water to cool it before drinking deeply. When he straightened up the man from the hovership was standing at the town edge of the path, staring at him. His face looked inhumanly pale, as if carved from ice, and his dark clothes made it seem to float there.

"You lied." Baze blinked water from his eyes. "The track's clear." 

"You're mistaken -" the man began, and then he looked behind Baze. Baze could see him tracing the trail back along to the ridgeline before he looked back. 

"How perceptive of you."It didn't sound like a compliment. 

"We'll go on through the pass in the morning."

"I would strongly advise against it."

"I don't care." Baze met the man's glare with equal intensity, remembering what Corda had said about rich kids. "Do you usually get what you want?"T

he man snorted. "Don't cross the pass," he said. He sounded more friendly. Baze didn't trust him in the slightest. "It's not worth it. You're traders, right? I'll give you a contact at the spaceport. It'll be worth more to you than time."

"The others are traders." Not that they would take bribes either. "I'm going to the temple."

"There are over a hundred temples in NiJedha," the man said drily.

Baze pushed his hair back out of his face with wet hands. "The Guardians of the Whills. I hope to join them."

For the first time, Baze caught a glimpse of something unexpected in the man’s expression, something other than that smooth superiority. 

"Join them?"

"They have my name." Baze felt the need to clarify. "I can sit the trials."

"And if you fail?" There was genuine concern there. It hung in the air between them. His dream, all he'd wanted for so long. He wondered what this man’s dream was.

"I keep trying," Baze said. He would, for as long as they let him. He shook his hair free again, suddenly irked by it.

"Go back." The man’s voice was back to that cool distant tone. "Take the long route." 

Baze wasn't going to accept that. "Why?"

He knew as soon as he asked that the man wasn't going to answer it. Instead, he took a few steps forward, and crouched down to fill a water flask from the spring. When he stood up again he was the smooth, closed stranger Baze had first met. 

"Good fortune in your travels," he said, standing up.

"May the Force be with you," Baze said. It was not something he'd ever said before, but he’d never had this conversation before, never spoken to someone like this, someone who looked too perfect and was keeping secrets, but who had sounded for a moment as if he cared almost as much as Baze did about his dream. It made Baze want to cling more strongly to everything that the Guardians meant.

The man was already walking away. There was a hitch in his stride when Baze spoke, as if he were startled, but then he recovered himself without looking round and headed down the track. Baze took one last drink, scrubbed his face, shrugged, and then followed him back. After a couple of hundred metres in silence the man climbed up off the trail over the side and disappeared into darkness.

Elif had been replaced by Corda, who was easier to evade. Baze rolled himself up in his blankets and stared at the lightening sky. He was just deciding that it wasn't even worth trying when he fell asleep.

Elif nudged him awake in full daylight, the breakfast ready and all the beasts fed and watered. "Something to tell us?" she said, and looked at his satchel meaningfully.He had thought she might notice. Baze told her - and Erren, when he came over, and Corda - what he'd seen. He didn't report the conversation with the man, which hadn't after all told him anything more useful, and which he wanted to keep to himself for a little longer.Erren's expression became gloomier as Baze talked. 

"We go back," he said, before Baze had even finished. He held up a hand at Baze's expression. "No. This is beyond us, and it's dangerous."

"But the pass is open!" Baze modulated his voice at Erren's grimace. "They're lying."

"We don't know why they're lying," Elif said. "That's the danger."

Nothing Baze could say had any effect. He gulped down his porridge, tacked up and untethered his kamia and, with a backwards glance at the gleam of the hovership, followed the others back out of the plateau. The grey figures were still standing there, faceplates unreadable, and neither the man nor his mother had come out. 

Baze leaned back in his saddle and stared at the familiar mountains in front of him.They were all strung out along the track when the ground started rumbling, a low hum, and then the hovership lifted off behind them, the shadow stretching out along the trail ahead. Baze twisted round to watch it. It skewed up above them and then held for a moment, twisting round to back on to the slope, a port at the back open and two grey figures there, holding a large black cylinder that was trained on one of the old mine entrances.

"What are they doing?" Baze said. He dropped his heels to halt his kamia and get a better look. Elif, fifty meters or so ahead, was doing the same thing. As he looked she turned back to Erren and yelled, but it was too late. 

The cylinder fired with a flare of red and a concussive shock that shook the hillside, sending out a thick puff of dust; and then, before silence could set in, the slide and clatter of displaced rocks, cascading down the hillside towards Baze and the others, too fast and deadly to escape. Baze flung himself off the kamia and down beside it, tugging at the reins, instincts he'd had since childhood to shelter what you couldn't outrun. The roar of the rockslide filled his ears and then something hit him and he was tumbling, falling, the reins cutting into his hands as his body collided with rock after rock, until he had no idea which way was up or what was left of him to find it.


	4. Chapter 4

Chirrut tapped the autopilot and pushed himself back from the console.  He could see the edges of the rockslide still moving below them, silent through the thick plexiglass; the rushing noise he could hear was all in his head.

He’d never killed anyone directly before. The bandits he’d paid off had killed a caravan guard in their enthusiasm, and no doubt by paying them at all he’d given them resources they needed to keep raiding. Chirrut had thought it justifiable. 

He could still hear that deadly roar.

"You should have had them shot first." His mother was in the co-pilot's seat and checking the droid uplink from the co-pilot’s seat, supervising the last of the loading. "Still. It’s your plan."

Chirrut’s plan hadn’t involved a group of traders riding into it with their thick peasant clothes and ridiculous beaded fringes on everything… The man he'd met at the spring had said he wasn't a trader, but even before that Chirrut would not have called him ridiculous. Chirrut forced his gaze away from the rocks.

His mother looked unconcerned. "These things happen. The nomads accept that, they’re a short-lived people."

Chirrut swallowed. She’d made him give the order to fire. He’d argued for letting them go; they hadn’t seen anything, they wouldn’t know what it was if they had, it could create more problems. His mother had coolly dismissed all his arguments and, counterattacking, presented him with his own plan, and the vital need for secrecy. Chirrut had found himself arguing for a landslide as less likely to attract attention than laser burns, an argument he was horrified to have won.

"Get the guards to check no-one survived," his mother advised.

Chirrut hadn’t been sure where he was going, other than somewhere he couldn't see what lay below, but this spurred him into action. He put his hand down on the console and flipped the switch to open up the hovership’s belly, hearing the thunk from below reverberate through his feet.

"I’ll go." Chirrut decoupled the power connection. "It’s my plan, after all," he added, when his mother raised her eyebrows at him in surprise.

He thought she was going to object, but then she shrugged. "Don’t waste too much time." She reached beneath her console, extracted a laser pistol and held it out to him. "It’s good to see you taking on greater responsibilities."

Chirrut took the pistol, the grip cool against his hand. He felt as if he was falling internally, as if the floor of the ship was tipping away from him, unreachable. He nodded to his mother and left the cockpit.

Once in the skimmer he sat there for a moment with the pistol in his lap and his mind blank. He completed the pre-flight check by rote, unable to take in any of the readouts, and kicked the engine into full power, dropping the skimmer straight down out of the hovership before engaging the drives. He put it into a wide arc around the edge of the rockslide, high enough to get an overview – he could see the loaded convoy pod starting to lift off on the other side of the pass, preparing to dock back with the hovership – and then dropped low enough to set off the most extreme proximity alerts. He held the control stick loosely in one hand and shielded his eyes with the other as he swung back to search. 

In Chirrut’s mind he could see the cliff face starting to give way again, the rock bulging out before the inevitable fall. 

He reached the edge of the rockslide and turned, going back up the slope, as slowly as he could. The engine whined at him in protest.

Rock, broken ground, a patch of tussock ripped from its moorings, more rock - the shapes below resolved into a furred leg and the edge of a box. Something lurched in Chirrut’s stomach. Your plan, he told himself again, but it had lost any ability to reassure him.

He found a flatter patch of ground off to the side and brought the skimmer in low, switching off the engine but leaving it in hover mode before clambering out and stepping down cautiously, his feet slipping on the loose scree. He clipped the pistol to his waistband at the side. The leg was, as Chirrut thought, not human, but belonged to one of the trader packbeasts, and it was warm but lifeless. The box had split open to disgorge a spill of beaded cloth. He could hear the eagles shrieking overhead, and shivered.

His eye caught a movement more purposeful than rocks settling. A shape further into the fall, in the shelter of a larger object; an overturned wagon, half-buried.Getting there wasn’t easy. His feet slipped on the rocks, and when he caught himself the stones he’d slipped on toppled down, triggering a small slip. For a moment Chirrut considered retreating to the skimmer and approaching from the safety of the air.  
The figure - definitely a person, now - moved again. Chirrut scrambled up the pile in front of him and paused at the top.A woman, face covered in dust and blood, on her hands and knees. Not his would-be Guardian. She looked up at Chirrut in dazed confusion for a second or two, and then back at the ground ahead of her, where another figure lay; the other woman, by the clothing. She pulled herself forward another few centimeters, dragging her body over the rocks. She was panting with the effort.

Chirrut could tell from the asymmetrical outline of the other person’s head that she was already dead. He wouldn’t have to kill them. Guilt and relief knotted painfully inside him. He knew part of him wished the first woman dead, too, so he didn't have to do it.

His mother would be watching. He pulled out his pistol and thumbed it into life, feeling it hum against his skin.

His wrist comm chimed. Chirrut, startled, lifted his free hand to his mouth. "Here."

"Your sister called." His mother’s voice. "We need to leave now."  
They should still have at least another six hours. "Is there a problem?"

"Not yet. Did you find anyone?"

Chirrut glanced at the waiting hovership. Perhaps the crawling woman was too low to be seen from this angle, masked by boulders; then again, it would not be unexpected for his mother to see this as another way to test him. The woman moved again, a shorter distance than before. Perhaps she was dying anyway.

"Chirrut."

_May the Force be with you,_ the man at the spring had said. Superstition. Lies. The gun was heavy in his hand.

"At least one dead," Chirrut said into the comm. "But there’s a blood trail." There was, on the rocks the woman had made her painful way across. "You were right, I should have shot them first. I need more time. I’ll take the skimmer back." He waited for his mother’s response. The vertigo was back, as if he'd cast himself free from all external guidance.

"It’s too slow." His mother sounded irritated.

"I’ll be there by sunrise," Chirrut promised. 

"If not I’ll take Tarrill," his mother said, a promise and a threat, and cut the comm. Chirrut waited for the familiar engine whine to shade into a roar. The hovership with its attached convoy pod turned, banked and accelerated up and off in the direction of the city. Dust particles in the air shivered in its wake.

Chirrut found himself still holding the pistol. He thumbed the activation switch off, handling it with as much care as if it might choose to fire all by itself, and put it back in his belt.

A clatter of stones from beyond the wagon, and an older man staggered out from behind it, his face caked in dust and blood. All his attention was on the woman.

"Corda!"

The woman looked up again. The man got to her and half-knelt, half-beside her, pulling her up and into a tight embrace. Corda's sobs split the air.

"It’s over." The man sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. "You're safe.""But Elif," Corda wailed. She made a move towards the body, and the man stopped her. "I know. Corda. I know." Tears started to cut tracks downwards through the dust on his own face. She sobbed louder, her whole body heaving. "Baze? Have you seen him?"The man shook his head. "Not yet."

Baze. His would-be Guardian. Not dead, or at least not for the moment. His mother would certainly doubt his competence if Chirrut had only managed to kill one of his four targets. Chirrut choked down a laugh that was shading towards hysterical and slid down the pile of rock on the side away from the two survivors.

He could see Baze in his mind's eye, glowering at him from the edge of the spring. Chirrut had been a little distracted at first - the man was wearing a thin sleeveless top that showed off impressively muscled shoulders , as well as having all that hair flowing freely - but he'd regained his focus when he'd realised that Baze had climbed up to check the track. He'd been reluctantly impressed, as well as irritated. And when Baze had talked about the Guardians, all that intensity had shifted, turning inwards; Chirrut envied his dedication. It had been - distracting, again, in a different way.

This wasn't getting him anywhere. When he'd looked out from the hovership, after giving the guards the order - Chirrut edged around the event, trying not to remember it more clearly - the traders had been riding in two groups, the wagon and three of the traders at the front, a fourth, who must have been Baze, at the rear with a couple of packbeasts.  There’d been a curve in the trail…

Chirrut shut his eyes on the wreckage and the rockfall, blocking out distraction. The noises of the traders faded into the background and, underneath all the other sounds – the creaks of settling rock, the distant hum of his skimmer engine – there was something else, a slow steady beat.

He took a step, stumbling a little, and another one. Another, and it was as if he could feel something pulling him along, the air giving way before him to make his path easier. He was moving faster now, his feet steadier.

The drop off had to be close. Chirrut screwed his eyes shut more tightly, fighting the desire to open them, and took another step. Another, and the toes of his shoe came down on nothingness. Chirrut opened his eyes and stared down at his leading foot, half on, half off the trail edge. Below him was a narrow ledge over a deep gully, and on the ledge there was a motionless figure, curled up on his side, leather reins in one hand dangling out over the drop with the ends hanging free. The blood in his hair was bright against the rock dust.

Chirrut slid his foot back. Before he could change his mind, he swung himself over the side and dropped down onto the narrow ledge. He bent to shake the man gently by the shoulder.

"Can you hear me?"For a moment, nothing, but then the man - Baze – twitched. He started to roll over.

"Don’t move," Chirrut said sharply.

The man froze, and then twisted round more cautiously towards him. Brown eyes, rapidly sharpening in focus, met Chirrut's with an intensity that was becoming familiar."You," Baze said. His tone was indescribable.

"Can you stand?" Chirrut felt no desire to explain himself.Baze broke their gaze and sat up, with some wincing. He pulled up the right leg of his loose trousers to reveal a swelling above his boot top that he poked at and twisted with what Chirrut considered a painful degree of thoroughness, and then, apparently satisfied, stood up slowly, holding on to the cliff face and putting all his weight on his left leg.  There was not a lot of room on the ledge. Chirrut edged a little further away. "Did you see anyone else?" Baze was looking down - Chirrut followed his gaze and saw the broken body of another packbeast on the rocks, a considerable distance below. "Two others." Chirrut saw again that motionless figure, the head not quite right. "The third - Ilaf? - didn't make it."Baze's mouth thinned to a line. He looked up to the cliff edge above them, studying it, and after a moment he crouched down a little, swung his hands back for momentum and then sprang up with a lurch, pushing off his good leg A shower of pebbles fell as he grabbed at the edge above and swung, twisting, trying to get enough height to get his body up and over the ledge.

Chirrut ducked a wildly swinging foot. "Hey!"

Baze got one foot on the wall and gained some height and a slightly better grip, before losing his foothold to hang again by his hands, grimacing. Chirrut eyed the cliff face further along and reached up to test a potential handhold. It held. He jammed his foot into a convenient crevice at knee height and heaved.

He could hear Baze panting as he tried again to haul himself up. Chirrut found another handhold – this one further out above the ledge than he would have liked, but steady – got his free foot over and, with a scrambling couple of pulls, got himself back up onto the trail. 

He could see Baze’s fingers gripping the rock edge, white with effort. His knuckles were bloodied and two of his fingernails had been torn down to the quick. Chirrut crouched down and held out one hand.

"Here."

Baze tipped his head back to look at him. "Too heavy. I’ll pull you over."

Chirrut decided to interpret it as a warning rather than a threat. "Would you rather stay there and rot?"

Baze snorted, then dropped his head, studying the cliff face. Chirrut couldn’t see his feet, but he must have found another leverage point, because suddenly Baze was right there, his shoulders almost level with the trail edge, his jaw clenched with effort. Chirrut grabbed the thick fabric of his jacket and heaved. The rock under one of Baze’s hands crumbled, and for an instant Chirrut felt them both tipping over. He locked his hands whatever he could reach, fabric and the warm hard muscle beneath, and flung himself backwards.

The hard trail surface was not particularly comfortable to land on. Chirrut got back on his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes. Baze took his time standing up, rubbing his shoulders thoughtfully and checking his ankle again. He had blood on his shirt, too; Chirrut could see it where his jacket gaped open, dark stains spreading across the tan fabric. Baze caught him looking and their eyes locked.

An apology seemed far too inadequate. Chirrut wanted to go back to the moment by the well and change things, although he couldn't think what he could have done differently.

Baze grunted, a short dismissive sound. He started limping purposefully back towards the main rockfall.

Chirrut trailed after him, thinking. He would let them all go; tell his mother he'd found one body, that he'd been mistaken over the blood trail. No-one would believe their story, surely, and even if they did it would be too late. He checked the time on his comm. Six hours or so to the city; it would be well after nightfall before he got back. Time enough. 

Baze had almost made it back to the wagon. Chirrut could see that the other two were slowly going through the wreckage of the wagon and transporting anything salvageable out of the rockfall. One of them had started a small cooking fire there in a ring of rocks, and balanced a kettle on it. A riwarl was there, with scrapes down both forelegs but otherwise unhurt, skittering nervously around the rock someone had placed on its lead rope. Baze gave a shout, hobbling more quickly, and the traders looked up.

More hugging, and talking. Chirrut saw Baze point in his direction, and tensed - but after a brief glance the traders seemed unconcerned. Chirrut picked his way back through the rocks to his skimmer.

They had put a blanket over the body, a decorative one with an elaborate beaded pattern in blue and yellow, bright against the dull rock surroundings. Chirrut looked away and busied himself with the battery readouts on his skimmer. He had no reason to stay, he told himself, and yet he still found it impossible to move. His family were waiting for him, or at least for what they expected him to be; a weapon, polished and and refined, that would cut on command and not care what the target was.

"Tea?"

An outthrust arm holding a battered metal cup, steam curling up from it, and Baze glowering at him from behind it. Baze himself had a stick of sorts - possibly a broken wagon spar? - propped under one arm as a crutch. Chirrut hadn't heard him approaching. His hand, which had gripped his pistol grip at the sound of a voice, relaxed a little.

"What?"

Baze pushed the cup towards him again. The smell was unappealing.

Chirrut took refuge in cool disdain. "Is this some nomad custom? How quaint." He took the cup.

The metal was hot, and burnt his fingers – he realised now Baze had a cloth wrapped round his hand to protect it. Chirrut juggled the cup from hand to hand, trying to get a more comfortable grip. 

Baze dropped his stick, took half a step behind him, grabbed the pistol out from his waistband, and got it around and up under Chirrut’s jaw, the barrel digging in painfully. Chirrut dropped the cup, the hot tea splashing his legs. Baze yanked him back against him in a grip like iron.

He could see the edge of Baze’s face and feel the bristle of his stubble brushing against the skin of his own cheek, as well as feel the heat of his body all down his back. Baze stank of blood and sweat and farm animals, and also of whatever herb had been in that tea. What he saw did not look like a man to be reasoned with. He had also, Chirrut saw by squinting, turned the pistol on, apparently more familiar with weapons tech than Chirrut would have expected. 

"I need you," Baze ground out, "to take me to NiJedha."


	5. Chapter 5

Baze was searingly, viciously angry; he could hardly focus on Chirrut through the white heat of his rage. He dug the pistol in a little deeper, and felt an uncomfortable twinge of satisfaction when Chirrut winced. He looked less perfect now.

"To NiJedha." Chirrut swallowed, the movement lifting the pistol barrel a fraction. "And then?"

Baze hadn't thought any further than that. It had been Corda's suggestion, when Baze had said that of course he wasn't going to keep going, that he'd help them get back to the nearest town to recover. Part of him still thought he should stay and do that, even after Erren had pointed out that there was only one riding beast and Baze could barely walk. 

He would ask the Guardians if they could help them, once he got there. It gave him something to focus on other than the desire for destruction.

"We'll see," Baze growled. He didn't see why he should reassure Chirrut. He'd twisted his ankle again grabbing Chirrut, and it had set off a jagged ache that beat in countermeasure to the dull throb in his head. "Get moving."

Without his stick he had to lean on Chirrut for balance, hooking his pistol arm around the smaller man's neck so he could keep him at gunpoint and still support himself. The two of them took half a dozen ungainly lurches towards the skimmer before Erren caught them up, also limping but moving much more smoothly. Corda trailed in his wake. She'd managed to clean most of the blood and dust from her face, but it only made her devastation clearer. Baze stopped, yanking Chirrut to a halt.

"I'll take care of him while you get into the skimmer." Erren came up next to Baze and took over holding the pistol. Baze let go of Chirrut. When he tried to put weight on his ankle it folded under him, and he had to grab at the skimmer to save himself. It wobbled in the air. Baze eyed it with distrust. 

Erren still had the pistol on Chirrut, but had moved around in front, studying him. Chirrut looked down his nose at him with superior disapproval.

"My daughter is dead," Erren said, his tone conversational. 

Corda flinched. Chirrut's expression didn't waver.

"I don't have your money or your connections," Erren went on. "All I can do is hope that you do something with your life to make up some small part of her loss."

Chirrut's face didn't move, but it looked suddenly hollow, and his eyes lost their focus. After a moment he opened his mouth. "I-"he said, and then stopped. Baze remembered Elif showing him how to use her laser pistol, teasing him when he handled it gingerly, and for a moment grief overwhelmed his anger.

"Get him to open the skimmer," Corda said loudly. 

Erren nudged Chirrut with the pistol. He stumbled over towards the skimmer and put his hand against a pale patch of metal on the side. The hatch opened, at waist height, and not particularly large. Chirrut stepped aside.

It seemed all too real. Baze glared at the tiny craft, hanging somehow unsupported in the air. After some discussion as to the best approach, and a final hug, Corda braced Baze's knee while he got his good leg up and over into the hatch. 

There was a single pilot's seat in a half circle of buttons and displays, and behind it just enough room for Baze to prop himself up in and extend his bad leg. Once he'd arranged himself he called out, and next Chirrut was swinging himself neatly down into the seat in front of him. Erren leaned over, handing the pistol down to Baze. There was a convenient gap between the pilot's seat and the headrest; Baze poked the pistol into it to rest just below Chirrut's hairline.

"Go well," Erren said. "We will ask for you in NiJedha."

"Go well." Baze remembered. "Wait." He dug into his jacket with his free hand and extracted his small belt knife and, with some difficulty, sawed a hank of his hair loose one-handed. Erren waited patiently. Baze handed it to him. An offering for Elif.

"In NiJedha," he said. He had brought terrible trouble down on them, and he regretted it deeply. "My thanks."

Erren nodded. The skimmer wobbled again as he as left.

Baze stared at the back of the head in front of him. The pistol's weight was becoming familiar. "Start," he said, when the minutes passed and nothing happened.

Chirrut tapped something and the hatch slid over them, sealing them in together. Baze suppressed a shiver. He could see the world outside through the front windscreen. It was still there. He watched Erren and Corda moving back towards their salvaged goods, holding on to each other.

Chirrut's fingers were moving across the console with mechanical grace. The skimmer's faint hum became a definite vibration. Baze wedged himself more firmly into place and offered up a small prayer to his ancestors. He tried not to think what his grandmother would have said about this.

The ground fell away beneath them, the mountains were suddenly below them. Baze grabbed at the wall with his free hand, but his fingers just slid along the smooth metal; then the ground was under them again, and coming up fast. The skimmer shuddered and leapt, and they were up again and rising. Chirrut reached up to tap something on a ceiling panel - Baze tracked his movement - and the skimmer steadied.

Baze wiped his sweaty palms one at a time on his pants' leg, swapping the pistol over. He stole cautious glances at the world outside them, tiny and unfamiliar.

"First flight?" It had an edge to it.

Baze considered possible answers. He wanted to bite back, but Erren's words to Chirrut had blunted the edge of his anger, and he'd begun to think of the handful of stories he'd heard about the Jedi, and the warnings of darker emotions.

"Elif would have loved this," he said instead. It hurt him to think about it, but it was true. He glanced around at all the tech; lights, readouts, all the machinery that kept this small ship up in the air against all reason, and tried to see it as she would have. He did not move the pistol barrel from its position. "She talked about visiting the spaceport, seeing all the ships there."

Chirrut didn't answer. Baze let the silence stretch out between them. 

Eventually Chirrut tapped something on the console.

"We'll have to stop to recharge the batteries." The sharp tone had gone from his voice. "Eight, maybe ten hours total to NiJedha, depending on the wind."

Baze could see Erren's map in his mind, the long slow trading routes marked out in days and water stops, months and years of travel. Ten hours to NiJedha. The roiling emotions inside him surged again. 

"We turned around," he said. "After your warning."

Chirrut's back gave nothing away.

"So it was a trap."

"When I told you that, I thought there was still an alternative." Chirrut's voice was softer.

Baze considered this statement,unable to decide if he believed it. "Who decided to blast the cliff?"

The pause this time was lengthy. "I gave the order," Chirrut said finally.

Baze did believe that. "And then you came back down, to make sure we were dead." Baze flexed his ankle and felt the pain shoot up his leg. "Change your mind again?"

"I can't give you an explanation." He'd tensed up with the questions, the elegant fingers stiff and rigid on the console. 

" You must be protecting something very important."

"I'll take you to the city." Chirrut dropped his head down. The pistol barrel slid along the line of his spine. "That's all."

Baze had said all he wanted to say right now. He settled back in his cramped position. 

They were over the desert now, flat and bare land that seemed to stretch out forever. The thought of living there, pinned to that monotonous surface, was unnerving. Baze preferred the rock formations that broke through the sand every so often, a brief contrast before the interminable sameness resumed. The sun was sinking behind them; the shadows from the rock stretched out longer and longer, their edges blurring with dusk. 

Chirrut cleared his throat. "We need to land soon to recharge."

Baze jerked at the noise. Staying awake was becoming more of an effort. His injuries and all the stress of the day were catching up with him. 

"What does that mean?"

"There's a power station eighty kilometres ahead," Chirrut did something with the controls, and the engine whined. "We land, swap out the skimmer's power packs, and take off again."

Baze was aware he was relying on someone he was holding at gunpoint for accurate information. "People?"

"The station is unmanned. No other craft on radar." Chirrut indicated a series of circles on the console that meant absolutely nothing to Baze.

"Or we could just keep going and crash," Chirrut added, when Baze didn't reply. 

"I'm considering it." Baze rubbed his chin. "All right. Land at the station."

Chirrut brought the skimmer down next to a small faded rectangle of a building, the only distinguishing feature a yellow triangular symbol painted on its flat metal roof. He switched off the skimmer's engine. The unaccustomed silence throbbed against Baze's ears. Chirrut activated the hatch.

Baze took a deep breath. The air tasted strange; it was fresh, which was welcome after the stale air of the skimmer, but it had a grit and a flat dry unfamiliar heat. He let it out of his lungs again with a sigh.

"Get your - what is that?"

A metal figure had appeared silently next to the skimmer and was looming over them. It had a squarish head, stick neck and rectangular body, with elongated arms and legs made up of looping, silvery rings. 

"Change your power cells, gentlebeings?" it said from a slot on its face. Baze stared at it in fascinated horror, the 

Chirrut had twisted round to see. "It's a droid," he said to Baze, with what sounded like amusement. "They're very useful. If you don't shoot them."

Baze dropped the pistol back to point at Chirrut and scowled. "I know about droids," he said. His aunt's one was tiny, though, a little ball of a thing, and it whistled and beeped, not talked. "I didn't know they made them like people."

Chirrut's mouth twitched. "Is that what you think people look like?"

Baze pushed himself up, grabbing the back of the seat to brace himself. Stretching relieved his cramps but woke up his injuries. His right foot was numb from the knee down, and looking at it did not reassure him. 

"Swap out the right fore and aft packs," Chirrut said to the droid. "House Îmwe's account."

The droid inclined its head in acknowledgement. Its legs slid down on themselves, shortening it to below normal height with a series of metallic clicks, and its arms snaked around the sides of the skimmer in search of the panel. Baze dragged his attention back to the cockpit.

"If we're all standing," Chirrut drawled. He seemed to have recovered his poise, as if Baze's confusion at the droid had made him more certain of himself.

"Get up."

Chirrut stood up, shaking his arms out. Standing, he seemed uncomfortably close, but Baze wasn't going to move.

The droid slid back into view. "Do the gentlebeings desire refreshments?"

Chirrut tilted his head towards Baze.

"Water." It seemed the safest option.

A metallic arm sidled into the cockpit and split into two clawed extremities, each holding a bottle. Baze took the nearest, uncapped the bottle with his thumb and drank half of it in a couple of gulps.

Chirrut took the other, opened it and took a measured sip. He'd turned most of the way round, and was studying Baze, dark eyes intent.

"I do regret your loss," he said.

Baze's fingers twitched on the pistol. "But not causing it?" He wasn't sure why he was trying again, only that he needed Chirrut to admit exactly what he'd done, in all its horror. He still wanted to understand why. Chirrut was still looking at him, face unreadable.

"Gentlebeings, I have a message from House Îmwe. They had expected you here before now. Your speediest return is requested." The droid again.

Chirrut looked down at the console. "Tell them I'll be there at the agreed time."

The droid retracted itself. Baze drained the last of the water. He pissed in his empty bottle and dropped it over the side, which got him a disgusted look from Chirrut.

"I'm not letting you out, either." Baze sat back down on the floor. "Hang on if you'd rather."

Another disgusted look, but eventually Chirrut turned his back and fumbled with his own bottle, muttering something about peasants. Baze didn't bother listening. He would get to NiJedha and then he didn't care if he ever saw the man again. Killing Chirrut wouldn't bring back Elif, although Baze was turning the idea over in his mind of handing him over to the Guardians; whatever he did, Baze wanted no more of him. There was no point trying to understand or forgive him.

When the skimmer took off it was full dark, the symbol on the top now glowing faintly. The land swept by underneath. Baze thought of his kamia, who'd never trod the desert sands, and now never would. He fell into a half-doze, rousing whenever Chirrut moved more than a little; the hours ticked by.

"NiJedha." Chirrut tapped controls. 

Baze opened his eyes to see lights below them, a cluster on a darker bulk against the sands. The city of his dreams. Baze looked for the tower and found it, a pale shadow in the darkness at one end of the rock. Chirrut brought them in closer.

"The city bans all vehicles, but I presume you're not bothered by rules." The skimmer circled around and over the wall at the edge. Baze could see the roofs of the houses below now; it was the largest place he'd ever seen. He couldn't imagine how all those people could live so close together, day after day.

In front of the tower was a half-circle of open space. Two fires were set either side of the tower entrance, burning with a blue flame. Chirrut put the skimmer down in the middle of the space, actually settling on the ground, and switched off the engines.

"You're here. Get out." Chirrut activated the hatch.

Baze pushed himself up slowly. Each time he did this it got more difficult. He locked his gaze on the tower and heaved himself to standing, grabbing for the edge of the hatch.

It had been a very long day. Baze readied himself for another effort.

"I'm not having you kick me in the face again," Chirrut said, and stood up.

Baze raised the pistol in warning. Chirrut sighed. "I have another two hours of flying in a skimmer that stinks of unwashed packbeast. I want you out of here."

 _Or you can shoot me,_ , his expression said. Of course, Baze would still have to get out of the skimmer afterwards.

"All right."

Baze let Chirrut boost him up and out of the skimmer. He slithered down, landing awkwardly on his good leg; at least the skimmer was closer to the ground than it had been on the rockfall. He put weight on the damaged ankle, testing, and hastily stopped as it began to give way.

The night was warm, with a soft breeze tinged with unfamiliar scents. Baze could hear people in the distance - someone singing what sounded like a lullaby, a woman laughing - and there were scattered lights in the buildings around them, but there was no one visible at the tower. It was massive and featureless, lacking any windows or exterior details, and yet it still felt friendly to him, a reassuring presence.

Chirrut's feet hit the ground beside him. "Come on," he said, and ducked his shoulder under Baze's, pushing him up and starting to move forwards, towards the blue flames.

Baze had to take a step or fall over. He took the step. "I don't need - "

"Oh please." Chirrut was moving swiftly, almost dragging Baze, and every impact jounced and jarred yet another sore spot. "You'd still be crawling across the plaza come sunrise."

The blue flames were burning on the tops of two large orange urns. Behind them was a triangular entrance whose shape echoed that of the tower itself, draped in dark curtains.

Chirrut yanked one of the curtains back, revealing more darkness. "Hello?"

Baze pulled away from him. "You should leave." This was not how he'd planned to enter the Temple.

"I'm not leaving-" Chirrut pulled back the other curtain, then turned on Baze when it failed to reveal anything - "until I know you're not going to bother me again."

He looked - odd. His pupils were tiny, despite the dim light, and he kept blinking. When he stopped moving, he swayed.

It didn't matter what was wrong with him. If Chirrut got back into his skimmer and plastered it across the ground, Baze's only concern was for anyone it landed on. He was where he was supposed to be.

He eyed Chirrut again, who was looking even more like he was about to fall over. "Are you - "

"Baze Malbus." The voice came from the side, beyond the opened curtains. Standing there, as if she'd been there all along, was the woman from the blue hut who'd tested him all those years ago; smaller, although that was probably Baze's perception, but otherwise unchanged.

With some difficulty Baze went down on one knee, the way he would for a elder in formal ceremony. "Yes," he said.

Ahelia considered him for a long moment. "You are prepared for the trials."

Baze had been so focussed on getting here that the trials themselves had temporarily sank in significance. He looked up at the tower, waiting silently. It expected honesty. "I don't know."

"Of course he's ready," Chirrut said loudly. Baze gave him a startled glare. Chirrut was leaning heavily against one of the urns. He was sweating, and the blue flame made his face look ghastly.

Ahelia's gaze considered him. "Are you prepared for the trials?"

"What?" Baze and Chirrut said together. Baze tried to get up and nearly fell over. Ahelia must have misunderstood.

But she was still talking to Chirrut, her voice clear and inescapable. "You feel the Force. You've denied it for a long time, but you let it in recently, and now you've come here. This is your chance."

"I don't know what you mean." Chirrut pushed himself up off the urn. "You religious people are all mad."

"It will tear you apart," Ahelia said. 

Chirrut's face revealed a desperate desire, a yearning - and then he clamped down again. "You're mistaken."

Baze was fighting with his own feelings. Anger, jealousy, grief, rage - none of it good. He still had the pistol, tucked into a fold of his jacket; he could put an end to this now. He reached for the weapon.

For a moment, Baze was back by the rock pool. He'd offered Chirrut a chance there and it had killed Elif. 

Chirrut shook his head."I don't have to stay here."

"No." Ahelia's eyes were sad. "You don't."

Baze breathed out. He couldn't change the past, only himself. He was here for the Guardians. He let the pistol drop to the ground, landing with a click, and looked back at Ahelia. In the distance, he was aware of Chirrut walking away - unsteadily at first, then more smoothly - and then after a few more minutes he heard the whine of the skimmer's engine. It built to a roar and then faded away into the night.

Baze was still on his knees. Ahelia turned her orange gaze back towards him. He wondered what she saw.

"Your trial," she said, "begins now."

END PART ONE.


End file.
